Sunday, November 29, 2009

This is rather like indoor camping. A dribble of hot water, a constant draft, a fire. Cooking on gas, tiny refrigerator, no cupboards. Bed very cot-like. The sound of the stream outside, the waterfall. This morning a fisherman stood hip-boot-high middle of the torrenti with a retractable pole, casting. Fishing season opened today (or yesterday) and apparently there is some life in this stream. The mailman drives by and honks; I don’t know why. It’s pretty quiet here, the end of the road about a mile and a half uphill, maybe a half dozen farms up the road. Peered in through the laundry room at the ancient millworks, the date “1767” carved into a stone.

There has been talk out there in the material worldas well as the blogosphere about the coming extinctionof blogging. Apparently, it's sooooo last year, last decade,I don't know. Passe, I suppose. But the alternatives arewhat -- facebook? Twitter? 140 characters? Not a chance.I do enjoy facebook -- I see it kind of like flittingin-and-out at a party, dropping a few lines (of conversation!)here and there; and twitter, well, call me old but I justcannot and will not go there. But a blog is a lot like havingyour own daily newspaper column, with regular readers.Room to spread out, really express yourself, get creative.It's a way to create a global community, and I am completelyenamored of it. I'm here for the long run. Stay tuned.

Saturday, November 28, 2009

As a rule I tend not to mention ailing body partseither in public or on my blog, because it's boringand no one wants to hear about your herniated/abscessed/sutured/festering-disc/earlobe/ follicle/toenail/artery/larynx/eyelid/hamstring.(Except for teeth: I make this one exception.)But I intend to violate this commandment Right Nowonly because I object to the idiom used to describethis particular condition.

So: "I've thrown my back out," which impliesan act of intent on my part, as if I've plucked outthe converse side of my torso and tossed it intothe garbage bin. (Or would that be more correctlytossed into the food waste bin? That's a difficult one.Don't know if anyone would want to spread compostedhuman back on their lettuce beds. [Eww.])

We discussed this at the Thanksgiving table, and cameto a conclusion that the phrase most likely originates inbaseball lingo, ie., the pitcher threw his shoulder out.Voluntarily? Not necessarily, but as there is a significantpaycheck involved in the Act of Throwing Out, onecould argue that because of the monetary incentive,a pitcher is willing to risk the throwing-out, is awareof its possibility, therefore some degree of intentis involved.

I must vehemently assert that there was not an iotaof intent on my part, and absolutely zero financialincentive. Therefore, I did not throw my back out.It was the sole decision of my back to contort itselfinto this twisted version of hell which it has deemedto visit upon me. But I would like nothing moreat this moment to wrench it from its skin sheathand toss it -- bones & all -- into a fire of my own making.

And here's the theme song!(Substitute the word hurting for watching.)Cheers! Vicodin!

This is my favorite feast of the year, the only requirementthat we acknowledge the abundance of the moment.Food is such an ephemeral pleasure; but, then again,which pleasure is not ephemeral? It all passes.I'm reminded of a dinner of, oh, perhaps ten years ago,to celebrate the simultaneous birthdaysof my mother-in-law and another friend.High in the Belltown condo of Seattle arts VIPPeter Donnelly, with breath-taking viewsof the December lights of Elliott Bay, we tippled, indulgedand made a heck of a lot of merry. I recall a humbleyet sumptuous chicken pot pie, which, as the yearshave passed, has in my memory taken on the proportionsof Dickens' prized turkey --"What, the one as big as me?" returned the boy.

Only eight of us remain from that grand evening.But suspended in the joy of that moment, I had the senseof the eternal and the ephemeral existing simultaneously,the yin and yang of each second we experience.

This is what I wish to serve upat the Thanksgiving table today.Whatever your celebration, your feast, your observance --acknowledge the ephemeral, honor the present,and have yourself some damn good pie.Because, as you well know, it's over all too soon.

Monday, November 23, 2009

My friend Cz. works in a children's hospital, where shehas encountered numerous, er, shall I say, interestingchildren's names. And because we share this fascinationof uncommon monikers she sent me this list:

Knowledge.Fitsum.Queen.True.9. (And no way is that Nine. It is 9. Be very clear on that, and be mad mad mad parents if the naming program does not provide a numeric option.)Justice.Bethsy.Lezania.Omahoney.Agate.Azure.

She pointed out that Omahoney was not pronouncedOh! muh Hoe Knee (or O'Mahoney, which was my edit)but Oh! muh honey! With the last name of Doll.Go ahead -- say it! Omahoney Doll! Yes!

Sunday, November 22, 2009

In a jet-lag haze……stopped in a hill town – Stimigliano -- and lunched on fresh pecorino (two weeks old) and ripe tomatoes, schiacciata( a flattishbread) and proscuitto and apples. We were perched on some steps in a square, in front of a WWII memorial. An elderly woman came out her door carrying freshly ironed linens, saw that Robin was drinking some red wine, and started chattering to us in Italian. She retreated into her home, then came to the door with a label-less litre bottle of pale yellow substance. R. stood and attempted to converse in her limited Italian. The elderly woman again disappeared, then returned with a 750ml bottle filled with the same liquid substance. She walked down the steps to us, entreating us to partake. So we did. The bottle appeared tohave been well-used, and not often washed. There was a film of black mold justunder the lip, and a residue inside at the bottom. A middle-aged woman across the square, standing in front of the produce-vendor’s shop, burst into laughter upon viewing us. (Quite nearly derisory.) (Sean suggested that perhaps she was serving us her day’s supply of fresh urine….) Robin produced a trio of plastic cups,and the three of us – Sean, R. and myself – sampled the “vino.” It resembled home-brewed apple cider, but the woman kept insisting that it was made from grapes, not apples. (This with Robin translating.) Faintly effervescent, appley, unfiltered. Not exactly delicious. In her limited Italian, Robin asked the woman her age (82) and name – Guiseppa. We returned the undrunk portion to her, having no cork with which to stop the bottle, and, to tell the truth, not exactly thrilled with

Friday, November 20, 2009

In February of 2007, I spent two weeks with my friends
Robin & Sean and their two children in the hills of Umbria.
They were renting, for several months, a converted
mill-house. (Used for pressing olives.) I ran across
these journal entries and decided to post a few of them
until the muse (and the finger muscles) return.
Here's the first installment:

Crazy busy week, lots of hours at my jobwhich results in very sore hands, so spending timeat my computer is not my activity of choiceat the end of the day! In spite of the digital distress,blog entries swirl about my cranium all day long:I'm storing them up for a, well, rainy stay-at-home day.

P.'s broken wing seems to be healing well -- no more pain,although I did witness him scratching his cast/splint today.

I saw an original Theodore Geisel in a docs office today --many many cats in hats! And I must say it's awfully niceof me to enable him to purchase art.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

When I was five, my sister Lorraine slammedmy right hand in the bathroom door, causingmost of my little finger to sever, save fora thin slip of skin. I was wearing a green dresswhich tied in back, and it was untied.I remember a single shoe, but that mightbe invented after many repeated recallsof the incident. And then there was theexamining table at Renton Hospital, my motherand father beside me. That's the extentof the memory. The little finger on my righthand sticks slightly out, and the joint tendsto get stuck when bending, but it's goodto still have an entire finger.

Karsten, a 23-year-old glass artist whoputs in a few days a week slogging glassat the same place of employment as me,said today that he suffered a fractured skullat the tender age of eight days: he fell offa clothes dryer. His mother was so completelytraumatized by this event that she lost allher pregnancy-weight in a matter of days.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

I woke up this morning thinking about dishwashing.The old-fashioned kind, by hand, in a sink.So I'm going to confess that I've always rather likedthis chore (ahem, in moderation). The hot waterfeels good, and if there is a window framing a garden,I find it meditative. There's a reassuring routine to it(and I can hear my mother's instructions here):put the silverware in first, to soak, then beginwith the glassware, proceed to plates & small bowls,then larger bowls, and then pots & pans. Sharp knivesare never set to soak -- too much risk of picking one upunknowingly in soapy sudsy water. Finally, thesilverware, now easy after having soaked.

Believe it or not, back in my Two Tartes days, I had toinstruct new employees on the Art of Washing Dishes.And I mean, from before step one:-3) Clean out sink.-2) Run hot water, add soap.-1) Scrape chunks off dishes.I was under the impression that, raised in the presenceof automatic dishwashing appliances, these kids had neverseen a pile of dirty dishes and a sinkful of suds. They wouldapproach the task with the speed of a sloth, and mosteverything came out greasy or still chunk-studded.So it was back to square, er, sink one.

When I became frustrated with their lack of progressand the dirty dishes began to teeter and the cleandishes were no more, I'd gently push the traineeto the side and go into Power Wash. Generally,everyone got out of my way when this happened.Jaws dropped. I went into a reverie, the endorphinsbegan to flow in abundance, and in a matter of minuteswe were back in business.

It was a weird kind of high for me. (I've rarely hadany use for recreational drugs -- just set me in frontof a sink of dirty dishes, set the timer -- and wheeeee!)

(When my sons accuse me of weirdness, I thank them.)

In my childhood years of enforced house-chores, therewas always a pair of us sisters at the sink in thepost-dinner hour. And there was generally song, from us:spirituals, anthems, all the songs from The Sound of Musicor Oliver or Camelot. When younger sister Kath and Ihit high school and were both in choir, and it was oftenthe precise notes of Handel that would rise alongwith Joy or Ivory Liquid bubbles:

Or Vivaldi:

Alas, our voices were not quite as sweetas those here, but I think that one of my mother'sgreatest joys was sitting in the living roomwith the evening Times, the lilt of her daughters' voices filling our little red house.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

There's an intimacy in buttoning someone'sshirt buttons -- the proximity to the heart,how you must ever-so-slightly lean in, nearlybrushing the face of the buttonee --

If it's a child you must stoop, allow yourselfto view the world from the perspective of a three-year-old.A different place!

Today I buttoned Paul's shirt for him, and was struckby how the act brought forth in me a tendernessthat is not necessarily accessed on a daily basis.I think that the last time I buttoned buttons otherthan my own was when Nelson was two-ish:he learned to do his own early, as he did mosteverything. He's 21 now, so it's been a few years.

And I thought how this is rarely an act donein any state other than generosity. It's difficultto imagine buttoning someone up while angry.The recipient of this gesture is nearly alwaysa vulnerable entity, unable -- for whatever reason --to perform the task oneself.

Of course, neither Paul nor myself anticipatedhis broken bone, and we most certainly were notprepared for the reality of surgery which occurstomorrow: adjust the schedule, because it'sgoing to happen.

But then, that's what life tosses us randomly:injury, joy, boredom, even death.This is it: take it. Find something in it.

For me, today, it was a visit back to the ordinarygestures of mothers with young children.Or not ordinary, for even in the simplicityof pulling a button through a bound hole,this gift of unexpected intimacy with my husband,I found my own glad heart.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Radius: a straight line extending from the centerof a circle or sphere to the circumference or surface.

Wait. That's not right.He did not break his straight lineextending from the center of his circumference.

Nor did he break or in any way injurethe throw of an eccentric wheel or cam.

He did however, fracture a long, prismatic,slightly curved bone, the shorter and thickerof the two forearm bones, locatedlaterally to the ulna.

And Friday, he succumbs to the the knife. Yikes.

And while we're on the subject of skeletal parts,I made myself (in a rush, this morning) a chickensandwich from a bag of meat that I'd stripped froma roasted chicken last week. The meat was frozen,and I wasn't paying much attention to the task.At lunchtime, when I bit into the sandwich,my teeth were met with a particularly hard pieceof chicken. My first thought was:why is this piece still frozen and the others are thawed?But, alas, no. Upon further investigation,I discovered this wedged in between the bread slices:Oops! I felt like the carnivore that I am. Primal,unwittingly gnawing on fowl cartilage.I had made myself a Bone Sandwich.Empathy for my husband, perhaps?Or was it the dithery brain of a middle-aged womanthat's responsible for this absurdity?I won't say. The bone, appropriately,went into the food waste bin.

When I checked my e'mail upon returning home,I discovered that M. had scavenged the bonefrom the waste bin, photographed it, and sent it to me.Lord, lord.

Enough with the meat.(Although that's what we are, when you getright down to it -- meat -- dripping and raw.)

I offered P. this chicken bone as a replacementfor his compromised radius, but he declined.

Monday, November 9, 2009

Painting at work today, mixing colors in the red tones:pink, purple, garnet. Each just a short step from the other,sister-colors, linked by a common heart. The reds alwaysmake my heart glad, especially this time of year, thisbundling-in time, this season of hibernation & burrowing:perylene maroon, iridescent garnet, quinacridone magenta.

And then I switched to blues/greens, and I could feel thesein another part of the body, up around the neck,the back of the scalp. A tickle and a tease: Indianthrope blue,duochrome lapis sunrise, duochrome blue-silver.

And iridescent antique copper over a mix of purples.A depth of tones, one over another, a foreshadowingof what we perhaps would rather not anticipate.

I have come to this love of colors-by-the-tubelate in life, compared to others who get out the brushesearly and get on with the business of painting. I have nodesire or illusions of becoming a painter. Heavens no!One useless/idealistic art (poetry) is one too many, often.And then again, there are uses for poetry, as there areuses for painting. (If you know what they are, pleaseleave a comment.)

It's safe to say that the writing of poetry is as essentialto me as the act of breathing. It's my daily bread,a communion between the soul and the word,organic, intrinsic to the self, an idiomatic prayer.

Saturday, November 7, 2009

Heading out into the the 8:30am darkness,in this storm which seems to not want to end,for breakfast with Nelson, at The Market.The best kind of day for downtown Seattle!We'll get a table somewhere with a view ofSalish Sound (aka Puget Sound) and revelin the Seattleness of it all. God I love this weather!

Thursday, November 5, 2009

I didn't have a blog entry in mind todayuntil I received a phone call from my brother.He's the oldest of us seven (and the only siblingof the male persuasion), and twelve yearsmore senior than I am. (Or, I should just say thathe's a senior, because I most certainly am not.)

I went to war with him when I reached adolescence,and it wasn't until I was in my twenties that I discoveredthat he was really a nice guy. Imagine that!

The purpose of the call was to wish me a Happy BD,a few days early. Get out the record books! Stop theclocks! Retirement must be good for him. I don'tgenerally expect to hear from him this time of year,but when his BD arrives a mere six days after mine,I always sign my BD card to him:from your sister who just had a birthday.....This was indeed a momentous occasion.

I've often suspected that he views his six sistersas a single organism; a cackling, shrill lumpof female cacophonous flesh. I took a good-naturedrisk this morning and broached this subject,and he vigorously agreed, without pause.Ha! I must give him credit for being able to differentiateenough between us to realize that we were indeedborn on different dates, in different years.

All in good fun, of course. I love getting him to laugh,and this morning his all-out, deep-throated galumph-of-a-laugh nearly caused my phone to vibrate.Whoa there Nelly!

He's gleefully retired on an apple orchardin Yakima, and this morning the conversationcentered on apple varieties: yellow banana, gala,golden supreme. He told me about taking a walklast December through the trees and discoveringone still laden with red delicious apples that hadsomehow been missed in the harvest. They weremassive and ridiculously sweet after having enduredseveral frosts. I love that image -- the surpriseof all that color in the winter landscape, the gravidfruit hanging low to the ground, sugars simmeringjust beneath the surface of the peel.

Kind of a make-up saints' day. If you failed, say,in your observance of a Holy Day of Obligationsometime, in, say, June, here's your chanceto retake the -- what? -- mass? Heaven --yes heaven -- forbid that one would be a failureat Catholicism.

And one more thing: if Pope Urban I, II, III or IVhad an office assistant, or a vice-pope, or any otherunderling, would that person be called SubUrban?

"What is the meaning of life? That was all — a simple question; one that tended to close in on one with years. The great revelation had never come. The great revelation perhaps never did come. Instead there were little daily miracles, illuminations, matches struck unexpectedly in the dark. . . . "—Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse"Like other poets, I am often asked if I have a spiritual practice. Yes, writing is my spiritual practice."— Alicia Ostriker

"The trick, Gloria thought as she experienced near-whiplash at the revelation, was to keep the level of believing in magic constant."—Marylinn Kelly

"Everywhere I go I find a poet has been there before me."—Sigmund Freud

"...and following the wrong god home we may miss our star."—William Stafford

"I am in love with the world.""—Maurice Sendak

“I live my life in widening circles that reach out across the world.” —Rainier Maria Rilke"Writing means revealing oneself to excess."--Franz Kafka"There isn't enough of anything as long as we live. But at intervals a sweetness appears and, given a chance prevails. " --Raymond Carver"Someone I loved once gave mea box full of darkness.It took me years to understandthat this, too, was a gift. "--Mary Oliver"In the middle of the journey of our lifeI found myself in a dark wood,For I had lost the right path.And so we came forth, and once again beheld the stars." --Dante Alighieri